So,This is Recovery? Seriously,Bring the Pineapple
by Kansas42
Summary: Getting shot isn't as fun as you might expect. Surviving is a super bonus, but that whole recovery thing? Not so awesome. Sequel/Complimentary Fic for So, This is Dying? I'd Rather Be Eating Pineapple.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is a complimentary*/sequel to my fic "So, This is Dying? I'd Rather Be Eating Pineapple." I think it'll make more sense if you've read that one, but it's not strictly necessary because this chapter goes over the same events different points of view.

Summary:

So, This is Recovery? (Seriously. Bring the Pineapple.)

"**Omen"**

Lassiter's coffee only has three creams, two sugars.

It's going to be a bad day.

"**Voicemail"**

"Lassie, what have I told you about screening calls from a psychic? It doesn't work, man. I know you're there. Listen, when you're done impersonating John Wayne and the Jolly Green Giant's love child, meet us down at the Good Mornin' Inn, Room 112. Solved your little triple homicide case. Also, did you know that you can't use house paint to paint a car? Who knew, right? I just tried it out on your Crown Vic, and really, it's quite—Lassie, hey! See, Gus, I _told_ you he was just ignor—"

"**Shootout"**

Four people knew that Victor was a murderer, and three of them were dead. Unfortunately, the dead weren't as silent as they were reputed to be, because that _idiot_ was talking to them now. Worse, the cops were listening to him. The tall one had a hand near his gun.

But Victor had his own gun, and he wasn't going back to prison.

"**Regret"**

When you're best friends with Shawn Spencer, you come to expect a certain amount of absurdity in your everyday life. Sometimes, absurdity is completely skipped in favor of total and utter lunacy. In fact, it's a pretty atypical week if their lives haven't been threatened at least once, usually on a Friday, after Shawn has said or done something suicidally get used to it; Gus certainly has, and is often careful to interject his own ridiculousness, just every now and then, so as not to be outdone.

But right then, right when Victor Matheson pulls out his gun and starts shooting up the motel room, like the desperate, homicial maniac that he is . . . right as a bullet goes whizzing past Gus's left ear . . . Gus doesn't want to out do his best friend anymore and kind of wishes he didn't have one at all.

"**Tremor"**

Juliet's hands don't shake when she pulls her gun. She hasn't been a rookie in a long time. She knows what she's doing. She trusts herself. She _is_ a good cop.

Juliet's hands don't shake when she shoots Matheson in the chest, but when Shawn stands back up, she stares at the blood pouring from his gut and almost drops her gun.

"**Inflection"**

Gus has yelled Shawn's name in at least forty-seven different ways. There's Shawn-what-are-you-doing and Shawn-you're-an-idiot and Shawn-if-you-even-think-of-doing-that-I-will-never-speak-to-you-again.

This time, when he yells, "Shawn," it means _ohmygodyou'vebeenshotohymygod_, and Shawn, he just says, "Hey," which probably means, _Hey, look at that_.

Then he falls forward.

"**Three"**

Shawn's unresponsive for three, long, horrible minutes. Then he shifts and mutters something unintelligible about candy.

Candy is Gus's new favorite word.

"**Delay"**

"Paramedics are en route. Be advised: there is a thirteen car pile up just south of Santa Barbara on the 101. Paramedics ETA: fifteen minutes."

Spencer doesn't have fifteen minutes.

"**ADD"**

Even bleeding out, Shawn won't focus. His eyes are roaming the motel room, searching it like he's looking for clues on what's happening to him. The only clue Juliet needs is the the amount of blood ruining her jacket. Shawn's dying. That's the situation.

She calls his name again desperately.

Shawn actually looks at her. "Jules?" That's a good sign. That means he's aware of his surroundings. She can work with that. If she can just keep his attention long enough for the paramedics to get here—

"Jules," Shawn whispers, "where's—"

And then he tries to get up. Because , even dying, Shawn's determined to do something stupid.

"**Delirious"**

Shawn's eyes are closed. He can't close his eyes. He can't. It's not allowed. Gus needs to wake him up. He needs Shawn to wake up and make some stupid joke, say he isn't going to die. "Shawn? _Shawn_?"

Shawn's lips part. "There are four hats," he whispers. He opens his eyes and stares blankly at his Gus's face.

Gus isn't sure Shawn can even see him.

He starts to cry, and Shawn just looks confused.

"**Dispatch"**

It's part of her job to listen to a lot of irate policemen, but as she informs him of yet another delay, Detective Lassiter uses the 'F' word in ways Betty has never heard and may be anatomically impossible.

"**Fortune"**

Lassiter isn't a psychic, doesn't believe in them, but when he looks down at Shawn Spencer, bleeding out on the motel carpet, muttering about swimming . . . Lassiter somehow _knows_ he isn't going to make it.

"**Porcelain"**

"Gus," Shawn says, and he's so pale; he's shaking so hard; there's so much blood. He doesn't know what's happening, but he must be scared. He must be so scared, and Gus can't help him.

His best friend is dying.

"Help me out," Shawn whispers, staring, and Gus feels himself breaking, breaking, broken.

"**Choke"**

His eyes shut and don't open and Juliet doesn't think she can breathe.

"**Humor"**

First, it's Juliet: "Shawn!"

Then, it's Lassiter: "Spencer!"

"Shawn!"

"Spencer!"

"Shawn!"

"Spencer!"

Even Gus thinks it's a little funny.

"**Grateful"**

Trust Spencer to try and laugh through dying. He starts coughing hard, blood dripping out both sides of his mouth. Lassiter moves, but Guster's already there, sitting in his friend's blood, arms wrapped from behind him, rocking him back and forth like a child.

Lassiter thinks of Henry, then Victoria, and is suddenly, overwhelmingly _thankful_ that he never had kids.

"**Death"**

This is it. This is it. He's been playing catch up to Shawn his whole life, but where Shawn's going, he can't follow.

It's not supposed to end like this.

"Don't play," Gus sobs. "Come on." And Shawn whispers that he's coming, but that's also when Shawn stops breathing.

"**Life"**

It was never supposed to end at all.

TBC

A/N: Swear I'll actually CONTINUE this story with the next chap instead of just providing different POV's.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks everyone for the great reviews! Here's part II.

"**Pulse"**

By the time the ambulance gets there, Shawn doesn't have one.

"**Jolt"**

CPR isn't the miracle everyone thinks it is. Lassiter knows this, but goes through it anyway, compression after compression after compression until the paramedics finally push him out of the way. He wants to yell at them. He wants to accuse them of incompetence, of not getting here fast enough. He wants Spencer's heart to start beating again.

The paramedics pull out the defibrillator, and Spencer's body jumps off the ground.

"**Comfort"**

They won't let Gus in the ambulance. He follows in his car. He doesn't look back to see Juliet and Lassiter standing side by side, watching after him silently, like lost children.

Juliet's hands are still shaking. Lassiter holds them tight.

"I have to call the Chief," he tells her, but he doesn't move, not right away.

"**Duty"**

Karen doesn't want to make the call. She doesn't have to, not technically. As the Chief of Police, she's supposed to delegate. She has other responsibilities. There are other crimes—

Hell, who is she kidding? She'll make the call, and she'll do it because she couldn't live with herself if she didn't. Henry was her partner. He's still her friend.

And as far as she's concerned, there are no other crimes in Santa Barbara today.

"**Partner"**

They used to go on stakeouts together. They used to do a lot of things, eat greasy pizza, argue about procedure, give each other shit, have each other's back. They had to work as a team. They had to learn to read each other, know what the other was thinking with a single gesture or word.

So when he gets home from his fishing trip and the phone rings and Karen just says, "Henry . . ."

He knows.

"**Wet"**

He isn't there when it happens, but the blood's still sticky when he arrives on scene, still red when Buzz touches it with his latex glove and thinks, _This is supposed to be_ _INSIDE Shawn_.

"**Bureaucracy"**

Any officer involved shooting guarantees a lot of paperwork, a lot of statements, a lot of tedious details, a lot of focus that she just cannot give right now. "We all want to be there, Detective," Chief Vick says, "but we can't do anything for Spencer at the hospital." Juliet knows that's true. She knows it, but . . .

Shawn could be dead right now. He could be dead, and she's too busy filling out useless forms to know.

"**Inkblot"**

"There's a bathroom down the hall." But Gus doesn't have to go to the bathroom. He's being handed a pair of pale green scrubs, which is odd. Pharmaceutical reps don't wear scrubs.

"You might feel better," the nurse says, "if you, uh, washed up." Does Gus need to wash up? He looks down at his shirt. The blood has dried there, a Rorschach pattern. He can see roses. He wonders what Mr. Spencer would see.

Shawn would surely see pineapple.

The nurse looks alarmed when he laughs.

"**Momentum"**

Henry knocks three people over as he runs into the ER. He doesn't stop to apologize. Shawn's been shot. He doesn't stop.

Gus is sitting by himself. He's wearing blue-green scrubs and whispering something under his breath. When Henry gets close enough, he realizes Gus is praying.

Gus's eyes open. "He's in surgery," he says. "They said . . . they said it could be awhile. They said . . we should prepare ourselves . . ."

Henry squeezes Gus's shoulder. "Like Hell," he says and storms off to the nurses' desk.

"**Priorities"**

Karen can't do it. She thought she could, but she can't. She needs to be there, for Henry, for Shawn, for herself. "Oh, screw it," she says. "The paperwork can wait."

Juliet's gone before she can finish the sentence.

"**Update"**

"He's still in surgery. It may be another three to four hours at least."

"**Henry"**

"Let him live. Let him live, and I'll be a better father; I'll keep a better eye on him; I'll watch whatever stupid 80's movie he wants."

"**Guilt"**

"He was calling for you," Gus says, "back at the motel."

Henry's heart clenches at the thought. His son had needed him. He'd been scared and confused and dying and he'd _needed _him, and where had Henry been? _Fishing_?

"Must have been delirious," Henry says roughly and thinks he almost pulls off nonchalant.

"**Doll"**

Gus forgets to call Abigail.

Somehow, in the chaos of it all, he completely forgets to call Abigail. She has to find out for herself, when she watches the news later that night. If she had slapped him, he would have understood. But she doesn't slap him. She just asks, "How is he?"

She looks so tiny and childlike when she cries.

"**Abigail"**

"We just found each other again. Please don't take him from me."

"**Buzz"**

"He can't die; he can't. He's _Shawn_. We still need him here."

"**Proof"**

Gus tries not to have an opinion on Shawn's love life. He's a _man_. He and Shawn are _man _friends. They do _man_ things, which do not include chit-chatting about girls. But, if he's being honest with himself, he didn't think the Abigail thing would last as long as it has. He thought Shawn would move on months ago.

Moments like today, he's glad he was wrong.

Everyone looks like they're about to explode. Half the police force is here, pacing back and forth, holding their breath. Henry has gone up to the nurses' station four ti—no, there he goes again. Five times now, so he can hear the same words he's already heard. _We will let you know as soon as there's something to tell you._ Gus can't blame Henry for being anxious. Gus would go up there himself, but he feels frozen where he is, Shawn's words both whispering and screaming inside his head. _Gus, help me out. It's too cold. I'm cold._

_I'm sorry, Shawn. I'm so sorry—_

Abigail's hand slides in his. "You remember English class, freshman year?"

Of course Gus remembers. How could he forget, Shawn standing in the front of the room, lecturing about The Lord of the Flies in an ugly gray wig that God only knew where he had found. Of course, when Gus had read The Lord of the Flies, Jason from the Friday the 13th series hadn't been around to slaughter all the boys there, but Shawn insisted that such additions only made the work more authentic. When Mrs. Fitzpatrick came in to find him "teaching," Shawn didn't even bother to stop. He just asked her to kindly take a seat because class had already begun.

Gus reminds Abigail of the time Shawn papered the entire gymnasium with I Heart David Hasshelhoff's Hair Fliers. Abigail mentions the detention Shawn tricked them into going to so he could recreate his own version of The Breakfast Club. Gus had insisted that he should be Emilio Estevez, if he had to be there at all. Shawn had told him not to be such a hairless and smelly Chihuahua; he was clearly Michael Anthony Hall.

There's no way Shawn can die. This is proof, somehow. Gus knows this. Who will do these ridiculous things if Shawn's not around to do them?

Abby says, "Remember that week in senior year? Shawn would only use Tears For Fears lyrics to communicate."

And Gus does.

"**Lassiter"**

"Spencer's an idiot. He's an idiot, but he doesn't deserve to die. If there's anything out there . . . don't you let Spencer die."

"**Henry's Addendum"**

"Okay, God. I'm not screwing around anymore. You let him live, or I'll climb my way up to Heaven and open a can of whoopass on you. Omnipotence be damned."

"**Doctor"**

"He's not out of the woods yet, but there's good reason to hope."

"**Wrong"**

Lassiter listens to Spencer's optimistic prognosis and silently thanks God that he isn't psychic.

TBC

A/N: Promise, Shawn will actually be in the next chap!


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Sorry to anyone who's been waiting for this chap. Life has gotten very crazy lately, so it's taken me a long time to update. The kind reviews, however, have been very encouraging, so thanks : )

Also, clearly, this all has to take place sometime before the Winter season, since I've been including and will continue to include Abigail. How friggin awesome was that season finale? Summer is WAY too far from now.

"**Prognosis"**

"Sir, I'm optimistic, but we won't know for sure until he wakes up."

"And when exactly will that be? Doctor?"

" . . . there's no way to know."

"**Lips"**

They each get to see him. Juliet goes in by herself, tries to see Shawn instead of the ventilator, Shawn instead of Shawn's blood. She looks around quickly for a moment before kissing him on the forehead, whispering how scared she'd been.

If the spirits don't tell him about it, she sure as hell isn't going to.

"**Refuge"**

Karen won't allow her expression to change. She won't allow herself to look weak. She's the Chief of Police, dammit. She will not cry here, not in this room.

But when she goes home later that night, she crawls into her little girl's bed, holds her daughter against her chest.

It's not comfortable, but it provides comfort.

"**Visiting Hours"**

. . . are not something Henry is interested in discussing.

"**Reading Material"**

Henry's holding a fishing magazine. He doesn't remember picking it up. He must have carried it from the waiting room.

Henry flicks through it 26 times the first night.

"**Assurance"**

Apparently, Abigail tried to transform her body into a pretzel while she slept. Now she's awake and wishing that she wasn't, every muscle in her body aching and stiff. She slowly turns her head. Gus is sleeping on her shoulder, murmuring something that sounds suspiciously like, "Don't hurt me, Mr. Bunny."

Abigail feels eyes on her. She looks up. Detective O'Hara is sitting three seats away.

"You're still here," Abigail says.

Detective O'Hara (_Jules_, Shawn calls her) looks uncomfortable. "I was just about to—I wanted to see—you know, witness statement, if he was—I have to go back to work." She stands up, grabs her purse, and is about to walk away when Abigail calls out to her. The blonde woman turns around, looking . . . pained? Embarrassed?

Abigail takes a breath. "Do you think he's going to wake up?"

Why she's asking the detective, Abigail isn't sure. Maybe she just wants an answer by someone who sounds like they give a damn. O'Hara takes a step forward, puts a hand on her shoulder.

"Miss Lytar," O'Hara says. "I don't think. I'm sure."

"**Juliet"**

"Please let me be right. Please please please let me be right."

"**Answering Machine"**

"Maddie? Come on, Maddie, answer your damn phone! It's . . . it's Shawn, Madeline. It's . . . it's looking better, but he's still unconscious, and the doctors say that . . . well, you know doctors. Just . . . just call me back. Okay? Call me back."

"**Lunch"**

Henry actually leaves the room for fifteen seconds to take a bathroom break. Gus sits with Shawn alone. He has a bag of Fun-Yuns that he bought from the vending machine.

"If you wake up now," Gus says, "I'll give you the whole bag."

But Shawn doesn't stir.

"**Gus"**

"Shawn, man, don't do this to me. You've got to wake up. You've got to. We're haven't even gone to NASA Space Camp, remember? God, please, don't you do this to me."

"**59"**

Henry doesn't know if he can read the magazine one more time.

"**60"**

Apparently, he can.

"**Resurrection"**

Of course, it's no coincidence that Shawn wakes on the third day. Later, when he gets out of the hospital, he'll declare himself to be Jesus. Jesus, but with less facial hair. Jesus, but with better hair, period.

Everyone will roll their eyes and ignore this. Secretly, they'll feel blessed.

"**Wake"**

The last thing Henry remembers is reading about trout. Then there's a slurred voice, pulling him out of the darkness. "No sleeping," Shawn says . . . Shawn says . . . _Shawn!_

Henry wants to gather his boy in his arms. He wants to hold him and weep in relief. Instead, he yells a lot.

It's pretty much the same thing.

"**Witness"**

Lassiter stops by the hospital, if only to shut up O'Hara. She's been nagging him for the past three days to visit. Lassiter feels that he would just be in the way. Besides, he doesn't even like Spencer. Isn't it hypocritical for him to go?

He is not avoiding the hospital because he's worried. He isn't worried. At all.

He walks by Spencer's private room, hovering hesitantly outside the door, and is just about to go in when he realizes there are voices coming from inside. Lassiter carefully peeks his head in. Shawn is sitting up in bed, holding on to the bedrails like he's holding on for dear life. He's as pale as the sheets around him. Henry, on the other hand, has gone a brilliant shade of red. He's clearly been screaming for sometime, although Shawn's the one yelling now. "It's knowing that your dad cares more about his stupid job than he ever did about his family, even when his wife tells him that he needs to stop, even when his kid _begs _him to finally stop—

Lassiter ducks back out into the hallway. He doesn't want the Spencers to see them. He has no interest in awkward family moments and only stays long enough to make sure the pseudo-psychic doesn't have some kind of aneurysm. Then he leaves the hospital without saying a word.

He's not smiling in relief as he drives back to the station. Or, if he is, there's no one around to see it.

"**Grip"**

Shawn grabs his jacket sleeve, refuses to let him get away. "Don't," he says, looking almost ashamed. "Don't."

Henry doesn't think he could, even if he wanted to.

"**Murmur"**

Shawn's almost asleep again and whispering something over and over. Henry has to lean in to hear.

"Don't go. Don't go. Don't go."

Henry kisses his son on the forehead, ignoring the tears that roll off his cheeks.

"I love you," he says quietly and hopesworrieswonders if Shawn can hear.

"**Inconsiderate"**

Gus is angry at Shawn. He's really really angry. He goes down to the cafeteria for fifteen minutes, and _that_'s when Shawn chooses to wake up? Of course it is. That's just like him, to not even consider Gus's feelings in the matter, to just wake up and go right back to sleep while Gus is busy ordering a turkey sandwich on whole wheat, which, naturally, is _not_ what he got, because no one in their right mind would call this whole wheat, and if he thinks about it hard enough, Gus is sure he can blame Shawn somehow for that too; he's so angry at Shawn, he's furious; he's so, so, _so_ damn _mad_—

Abigail runs up to him and Gus catches her and they laugh as hard as they can.

"**Order"**

Karen allows the station to erupt into chaos when they get the good news. Okay, fine. There was no way she could have stopped them. Spencer is very well-liked, and his recovery is a cause for celebration.

But in fifteen minutes, everyone is getting back to work.

"**Enforcement"**

"That means you too, O'Hara."

"**Visitor"**

Gus hugs Shawn for so long that it gets a little ridiculous. He tries to ease away with an, "Okay, buddy, okay," but that's hard to do when you're in a hospital bed. Anyway, maybe Shawn doesn't mind too too much. You know, he gets it. If he'd been in Gus's place . . . but Shawn doesn't want to be the crappiest of the Friday the 13th sequels (_Jason Goes to Hell)_, so he doesn't think about it.

When Gus finally lets go, he does that wink and nod thing that he thinks is sly but really is only creepy and sad. "There's someone outside who wants to see you," he says.

And Shawn doesn't know if he wants it to be Abigail or Juliet.

"**Scars"**

Shawn slides his hospital gown around to get a better look at the point of entry. He sighs mournfully at the sight of his own puckered flesh. "You know what this means?" he asks.

"What?"

"I'll never be able to wear my itsy bitsy tennie weenie yellow polka dot bikini." He glances up her, still solemn. "I guess you'll have to wear it for me."

Abigail snorts.

"**Delay"**

Shawn asks, "Has anyone called Mom?" and Mr. Spencer says, "She can't get here for another three weeks," and Shawn says, " . . .oh," and Gus kind of hates Shawn's mom a little.

"**Stubborn"**

It's nice to have a sexy nurse, but there's just nothing sexy about a catheter. And urinals? They look like demented milk jugs. Shawn tells Gus this, and Gus says, "Great. Now I can never drink milk again. Thanks, Shawn."

Shawn says, "You're welcome, buddy."

He doesn't mind people fetching him things and he doesn't mind people being nice to him—even Lassie said, "Feel better soon," with the grimly forced smile of a man about to kill somebody—but Shawn isn't dying anymore, and he can get up to go to the bathroom on his own, to hell with what his doctors or nurses or dad thinks.

And he's totally right about this. He only falls on the way _back_ from the bathroom.

"**Vexation"**

"Godammit, Shawn! I will handcuff you to this bed, do you hear me?"

"**Restraints"**

. . . are for people who didn't grow up with Henry Spencer as a father.

"**Dream"**

His dad's telling him to get something from the candy machine, but he doesn't, he doesn't want candy. He's had too much candy. His stomach hurts. It's exploded and bloody and making a mess of the motel carpet.

"Dad," Shawn says. "It's too cold. I'm cold." But Dad isn't there; Gus is, and Gus says, "I'll miss you, Shawn. You were the best friend I ever had."

"But I'm not dead! Gus, I'm not dead! Listen to me; listen to me; I'm not—"

Shawn startles awake.

"**Medium, Interrupted"**

Buzz hasn't visited Shawn in over a week, so he drops by the hospital right before his shift. The psychic is surrounded by get-well cards and pineapples. He raises his arms over his head. "Buzzy! The Buzzmeister!"

They talk for awhile, and Shawn, as always, is amazing . . . getting shot hasn't gotten in the way of his gift at all . . . but in the middle of channeling Buzz's great aunt Mildred, a nutrition clerk accidentally crashes a cart into a wall. Buzz jumps a little and laughs at himself. If you're a cop for awhile, everything starts to sound like danger.

Shawn's suddenly really pale. "Sorry," he says. "I, uh, lost the connection."

"**Piece"**

O'Hara looks around the crime scene. "It's just . . . it feels like something's missing."

"Spencer?" Lassiter asks knowingly. When O'Hara reluctantly nods, Lassiter grins like a six year old child at a candy store. "I know. Isn't it great?"

"_Carlton_."

"**J-O-B"**

Of all the ridiculous career choices he could have picked . . . Abigail really, really wishes Shawn hadn't settled on crime-fighting psychic.

"**Reunion"**

He goes to sleep alone, dreams of swimming through blood, and wakes up to see his mother.

"Mom, hey," Shawn says, smiling wanly. "I thought you wouldn't be here for another week at least. When did you get in? How was England, then? Many tea and crumpets? Did you fancy a visit to the Queen? Ooh, did you get those socks Gus wanted? You know, Gus and his ridiculous international sock fetish. Can you believe he _still_ hasn't forgiven me for that little incident with his Canadian ones? I mean, how was I supposed to know they'd catch flame that quickly? But that's Gus for you. He over exaggerates every little thing. Do you remember when we were kids and he used to—hey, hey, what's—Mom, don't; don't cry, Mom; it's okay; I'm okay; I'm fine."

But when Madeline leans in to hug him, it's Shawn who can't let go.

"**Worry"**

Madeline stays until Shawn is discharged. She can't stay any longer . . . she has evaluations already scheduled in both Oregon and Wyoming. Shawn says he isn't mad. Shawn's never, ever mad at her. Shawn says that he's okay.

But this time, she doesn't think he is.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thanks for all the awesome reviews, everyone! They're extremely inspiring when my brain tries to give up and die.

"**Fog"**

The first few days are kind of rough. Shawn's still on the big boy pain meds, and while those are fun for awhile, he has a process. (_He needs to see things._) The pills blur all the edges, keep him from taking in the little details. He watches The Breakfast Club on TNT. Later, he tries to remember the commercials that were playing and can't.

He downgrades to Tylenol the next day.

"**Slumber Party"**

Gus comes over unannounced. He has a sleeping bag under one arm. "I'm staying here for a few days," he announces. He's wearing Gus Face # 4, so Shawn knows he's serious.

Gus says he's sleeping over to make sure Shawn doesn't get himself killed. Gus thinks he's staying over to make sure Shawn doesn't get scared by himself. Gus is actually staying over because Shawn isn't the only one who's scared.

Some days are better than others. On the good ones, they both sleep through the night. On the bad ones, they stay up and watch marathons of everything Keanu.

"**Secret"**

The station's not the same without Spencer, but Lassiter's not admitting it. Ever.

"**Lie"**

Juliet tells herself she's not ridiculous for only visiting Shawn during school hours.

"**Flattery"**

Juliet stares at him when he answers the door. "Shawn," she says. "You look terrible."

He leans into the door frame and smiles wanly. "Thanks, Jules," he says. You really know to make a boy feel special."

Juliet wants to apologize, but . . . he really does look terrible. His skin is pale and he's sweating . . . probably clammy, were she to touch him. She doesn't. He has the pinched expression of a man who hurts when he breathes too deeply. "How are you feeling?" she asks. "Are you in a lot of pain?"

"Only when you're not around."

Juliet can't help but smile.

"**Paralyze"**

Henry wakes up early and tries to go fishing. He hasn't been fishing in almost two months now. The last time he went, Shawn tried to die on a motel carpet.

He doesn't even make it to the dock.

**"Concern"**

Gus is both worried and exasperated after Shawn's fifth stumble. "Shawn, would you just sit down and take your damn meds?"

"Gus. Don't be undrinkable organic root beer. I'm fine."

"**Agony"**

Shawn's gut is on fire. He can barely get up off the couch. Even speaking hurts at this point. Maybe Gus is right. Maybe he isn't fine.

. . . nah.

"**Dead End"**

Judith McKellan, 27. Strangled in her own apartment. No witnesses. No suspects. No evidence. No leads.

Karen sets down Detective Lassiter's report, leans back in her chair, and sighs. If ever there were a time for a miracle . . . or the ridiculous facsimile of one that she usually employs . . . well, this would be it.

"**4:15 am"**

Gus startles awake, trying to wipe off blood that isn't there. Shawn is already making popcorn, circles under his eyes. "Point Break?"

"You know that's right."

"**Plan"**

"We have to do something," Abigail tells Gus. "He's in so much pain . . . "

"It's okay," Gus tells her. "I know who to call."

"**Spiked"**

He's almost halfway through his smoothie when he realizes something's wrong. There's no pain, no pain at all. It feels wonderful. It feels . . . _whoa_.

Shawn slumps over on the couch. "You drugged me," he mutters.

Henry smiles.

"**Faith"**

She can see it's eating away at him, his inability to crack the case. The whispers, they're getting louder: _If Spencer were here . . . Shawn could find this guy._

Juliet's caught herself thinking it too. But Shawn's not the only man she believes in.

"**Persistence"**

His desk has been overrun. Papers upon papers, evidence reports, arrest records, all telling him absolutely _nothing_. They have _nothing_ on this guy, no leads, no suspects, no hope. Women are being strangled in their own homes, and Lassiter . . . he can't do anything about it. _He's_ not the one the Chief needs.

He slams his head on his desk.

"Ow."

Something is placed near his cheek. He turns his face slightly towards it. It is the most heavenly smelling cup of coffee that has ever existed on the planet Earth. He glances up. O'Hara is there.

"Come on," she tells him. "Let's go over this again."

"**Bribery"**

Abigail makes him dinner, in his Easy Bake Oven, no less. For dessert, there's pineapple and an entire can of Reddi Wip. "You're the best," he tells her, holding his hands out. Abigail holds the whipped cream above his head.

"Did you take your meds?" she asks him.

Shawn sighs.

"**Indecision"**

Shawn's never been serious about anyone, ever. He wants to be serious about Abigail. He _is_ serious about Abigail. He cares about her. She makes him smile.

But he still thinks about Juliet, and the day he was shot . . . he didn't think about Abigail at all.

"**3:37 am"**

Gus hears—there's just no other word for it—_whimpering_ coming from Shawn's bedroom. He knocks and then pushes the door open. Shawn is muttering to himself in his sleep. "Dad . . . please . . . it's cold, Dad . . . please . . . Dad, it hurts . . . Dad . . . Dad, Dad!"

Gus touches Shawn's shoulder gently, and Shawn starts up in bed. His arms go up, like he's protecting himself from an attack. "Wha . . . Gus?"

Gus smiles wearily. "Speed?" he asks. "Or Bill and Ted's?"

"**Denial"**

Gus falls asleep before Keanu breaks every law of physics just by being awesome. Shawn watches the bus miraculously land on the other side of the fifty foot gap. He rubs his eyes and then rubs them again. He should try to go back to sleep. He isn't going to.

Gus's nightmares have become more infrequent. He probably thinks Shawn's having less of them too, because Shawn hasn't told him otherwise. He hasn't told anybody otherwise. What's to tell? They're just nightmares. They don't mean anything.

Gus is going to move back into his own place soon. Shawn lies to himself, says he's fine with that too.

"**Solo"**

He's been back in his own apartment for a week, and, honestly . . . it's nice to have a break from Shawn. He needs his space sometimes. He needs a little normalcy, consistency. Sanity.

But solving cases . . . but Psych . . .

Gus picks up his pharmaceutical case and sighs. He really misses Psych.

"**Lead"**

It's Lassiter who finally finds it, the connection between the three victims. Two of them regularly shopped at a local art supply store. They didn't think it meant anything, because Judith McKellan didn't frequent the location . . . but she did go at least once, searching for a birthday present only two days before she died . . .

O'Hara gives Lassiter a high five. He grins.

They're going to find this sonofabitch.

"**Supper"**

He goes over to his dad's for dinner, and they have steak. _Again_. "What happened?" Shawn asks him. "Did the fish finally get the memo? That bright light at the end of the tunnel, it's actually the gas burner on the barbecue?" He touches his father's hand, looks him squarely in the eye. "Dad? Have you lost the will to decapitate Flounder's cute, fishy little head?"

Dad slaps his hand away and stomps out of the kitchen.

"**Suspect"**

Juliet hands Lassiter a print-out. "Remember that store clerk we talked to last week, Jack Grady? He's got a record—two arrests, both for peeping tom incidents. And his alibi? It doesn't check out. His friend, Charles McAdams, said Grady never came over."

Lassiter clapped his hands together. "That's our man! We got him."

"**Communication"**

Shawn calls at 2:00. Then 2:15. Then 2:20, 2:23, 2:24, 2:25, 2:26, 2:27—"

"Fine!" Gus yells. "I will bring your damn pineapple smoothie!"

"**Dehydration"**

"Thank God," Shawn says when Gus shows up. "Do you know how long a human can live without pineapple? I wikied it, man. 36 hours. It's not pretty. Fifteen more minutes, and I'd have been done for."

Gus shoves the smoothie at him. "Don't even joke about that," he says. Shawn fails to look even remotely contrite. He does, however, look exhausted. The circles under his eyes look more like bruises. Gus tries not to worry about this. "You can go out on your own, you know," he reminds him. "You're back to over-the-counter meds now . . . with _doctor's _approval, this time. There's a 7-11 a block from your apartment. Walk it."

Shawn looks pained. "Guuuus. I was _shot_."

"Yes, _Shawn_. I think I remember." Gus sits back on the couch, watches his friend as he drinks from the smoothie. On one hand, Shawn never complains about pain when he's actually in pain, only when he doesn't want to do something. On the other hand, Shawn really does look like crap. "You okay?" he asks finally, searching for the lie.

Shawn beams at him. "Of course I am, buddy."

Of course, Shawn lies for a living.

"**Flashback"**

They take him down at the art store. Jack Grady, 38, failed sculptor. No one expects him to put up much of a fight. No one expects him to be armed with anything more than a paint brush.

When he pulls out the gun, it's like the Good Mornin' Inn all over again.

"**Armor"**

"_Shots fired; shots fired; officer down_!"

Thankfully, O'Hara is a lot smarter than Spencer. She wears a vest.

"**Phone"**

"I'm fine," Juliet tells him again. "You don't need to worry. I didn't even have to go to the hospital."

Shawn tells her not to be a reheated chalupa. Of course, he isn't worried. This is Juliet they're talking about. She's, like, Wonder Woman. She probably has an invisible jet. She probably has something better than an invisible jet.

"Shawn, what could be better than an invisible jet?"

"An invisible jet made up entirely . . . of pineapples."

"Good night, Shawn."

"**2:08 am"**

He dreams that they're back in the motel, and Victor (aka The Bad Guy Who Shot Him, aka The Biggest Bad Guy since Gary Busey's Hair in Lethal Weapon) pulls out his gun and shoots Juliet in the stomach. Then, he shoots Shawn. He's about to shoot Gus too, but Gus asks him to become a pharmaceutical rep instead, and they skip out of the motel room while Shawn and Juliet bleed out on the floor. Shawn reaches with his arm. If he could just touch her, he could save her. If he could just touch her, he could save them both.

But he wakes up before anyone can be saved.

"**Late"**

Shawn looks like death warmed over when he stumbles out of his apartment. In the back of his mind, Henry is concerned. In the rest of his mind . . . they're already twenty minutes late, and Henry passed on an opportunity to go camping with some old cop buddies, just so he could give Shawn a ride today. "If we get there, and they cancel your appointment just because you overslept . . . you're on your own, pal. I have other things to do than drive you around."

"Really? Was Wal-Mart having a sale? Did you miss your last chance to buy a shirt that could blind children on Mars?"

Henry slaps his hand down on the steering wheel. "You know what, kid? Grow up. My life does not revolve around you."

"Thanks," Shawn says, staring out the window. "I got the memo on that one years ago."

"**Pep Talk"**

He can't get up. He just can't. Everything in his body is on his fire. His toes are even on fire. He got shot in the stomach. How can his _toes_ possibly be on fire?

"Come on, Shawn. Get up. Or did you want to stay here until your next appointment?"

Shawn doesn't jump up and strangle his Dad, but that's mostly because he can't move. "Okay," he snaps. "Maybe you could give me a minute—wait till I can breathe again?"

Dad rolls his eyes. "Suck it up, Shawn. It's physical therapy. It's supposed to hurt."

"Wow," Shawn says. "Well, thanks for that. Maybe you want to tell me what a failure I am, you know, bitch about my motorcycle, remind me how I'm wasting my gifts . . . anything like that? Just while I'm down here?"

Dad shakes his head. "Kid," he says. "If you spent the same amount of time on your PT as you do whining, you'd probably be 100 percent by now."

"So, I'm just weak? That's it? That's what you're telling me?"

"No. I'm telling you that you got shot. Deal with it and move on."

"**Ride"**

Shawn takes a cab home from the clinic.

"**Renovations"**

Henry gets one look in the mirror and takes a sledgehammer to his bedroom wall.

"**Work"**

"You sure you're ready for this, Shawn? You weren't supposed to start back at Psych for at least two weeks."

Shawn barrels his way past him, one hand unconsciously pressing into his stomach. "I'm fine, Gus."

Gus studies him. "Did you and your dad—"

"Nope."

Uh huh.

"**Math"**

This is the problem, the thing that causes his nightmares: the world is not spontaneous. Shawn is spontaneous—he is spontaneously _awesome_—but the world, it follows patterns, equations, rules. A leads to B leads to C leads to D. Shawn can see the connections, can get to E and F before anyone else can. This is his thing. It's what he does.

But he never saw the bullet coming.

"**Gift"**

His last night before he goes back to work, Abigail is waiting for him in bed. She's only wearing one thing: an itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka dot bikini.

Shawn's got the _best_ girlfriend.

TBC

A/N: One more chap to go!


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: First, I must apologize to anyone who's been waiting to read this chapter. I hit what is commonly referred to as a Writer's Block of Death, and I swear, only two things got me through it: one, my sister's constant nudging, and two, your guys' awesome reviews. Secondly, you may (or may not) remember that this is supposed to be the last chapter. Er, that's no longer the case. Sorry. Should be one more after this.

Also, warnings for one four letter word you probably won't hear anytime soon on USA.

"**Civic Pride"**

It's little stuff that gets to him.

Fourth day back at the office, and Shawn's so bored he might just _die_. Two cases, that's it, just two, and one of them involved a missing cat. And not even an awesome cat like a Thundercat, or even a normal cat with, oh, he didn't know, _fur_, maybe? No, this was one of those creepy, hairless, rodent-cats that cost too much money and tried to claw your face off at night. This cat was an insult to cats. It was Mrs. Pickles's mangy, hell-begotten stepsister, and Shawn's not entirely sure that rescuing it had been any kind of mercy to the human race. (Although, Gus's face, after the spooky ass thing had leapt out at him from the shadows? Priceless.)

Still. Between the Demon Cat and the Chief's softball graffiti case (graffiti, really? He discovered a _dinosaur_, for Molly Ringwald's sake), Shawn's about ready to commit suicide via a massive intake of Pop Rocks and Coke if _something_ interesting doesn't happen soon. He's actually on his way out the door to buy these instruments of self-destruction when he catches sight of something on Gus's desk that's even creepier than the Hell Kitty of Doom.

"Really, Gus? Really? An Obama Chia Pet?"

Gus looks at it. "What? Lots of people have Chia Pets, Shawn."

"Dude, that thing is going to come alive at night, infect you with moss, and take over the world. Why would you possibly own that?"

"I'm showing my civic pride, _Shawn_. If it hasn't killed me in the last two days, I'm sure it won't kill me now."

Shawn pauses. "Seriously?" he asks. "You've had that thing for two days? Like, sitting right there? For two whole days?"

Gus looks at him. "Yeah," he said. "You didn't notice?"

He really didn't.

How could he have missed that? Who misses something like that? How could _he_ have not seen it?

What else isn't he seeing?

"**Speechless"**

"Hey, you've reached Shawn Spencer, Psychic Extraordinaire and Occasional Belly Dancer. Leave a message . . . or don't, because I'm psychic, and I know what you want."

Henry opens his mouth, closes it, opens it, and then finally hangs up.

"**Vanished"**

Karen meets her detectives at the apartment of a Miss Janine Winslow. Miss Winslow was reported missing 72 hours ago, and so far, nobody has any leads, no idea where she could be. There's no sign of foul play anywhere in her apartment. There's no indication that she was harmed in any way. But Karen's been a cop a very long time now, and she knows that, sometimes, you have to go with your gut. Some days, it's not about what the evidence says. Some days, every cop is just a little psychic.

And this is what Karen knows: Miss Winslow's in trouble . . . or beyond it.

Lassiter and O'Hara look up as Karen steps into the kitchen. There's anxiety in O'Hara's eyes, only resignation in her lead detective's. They both know what this means.

"It's time," she tells them, regardless.

"**Jubilation"**

"Yes! Yes! Ohmygod yes! We are so ready! THANK YOU, GOD!"

"A girl _is_ missing," Juliet reminds him.

Shawn winces. "Yeah. What I meant was . . . gosh. That's too bad."

"**Stuck"**

He walks around the missing girl's bedroom. The Chief said there were no obvious signs of foul play, but she can't see everything that he can. The bookshelf has been moved. There are indentations in the carpet. A picture frame has been overturned. There is a pineapple on the bedside table.

Shawn stops, turns around. No. There's no pineapple on the bedside table. There's nothing but an alarm clock and a four-day old glass of water. Why did he think there was a pineapple? There wasn't a single pineapple in the apartment. Clearly, Janine Winslow had not been a fan of delicious flavor. There _had_ been a pineapple in the motel when he was shot . . . hadn't there? _Hadn't there?_

There's a gunshot outside, and Shawn can't move.

"**Ralph"**

"Oh my God, Shawn; are you okay?"

Juliet finds him outside, throwing up next to a tree in the communal backyard. She has no idea what happened . . . he didn't look sick when he arrived. Tired, maybe, thin, but excited at the prospect of working a real case. Now, he's standing up, pressing a trembling hand to the back of his mouth.

"Oh, yeah," he says. "Yeah. I just . . . always wanted to know what an omelette looks like, you know, after." He can't entirely meet her eyes. "Apparently, not that good."

She doesn't smile. It's not that good of a joke. "Shawn, are you sure . . ."

He nods. "I'm fine. I'm good. I'm fine."

Shawn walks back into the house. Juliet hopes he knows what he's doing.

"**Caller ID"**

He feels stupider than the plotline of Indiana Jones 4. A car backfired, that's all. Not a gunshot. A car. Shawn walks away from Jules, ignoring the eyes burning holes into his back. He's fine; he's gonna be fine. He freaked a little, but he's fine.

As he walks into the living room, Bananarama starts playing, somewhere around the vicinity of his butt. Shawn pulls the phone out of his back pocket. Gus asks him who it is. Shawn glances at it and then turns his phone off.

"Absolutely no one," he says.

"**Thirty Seconds Later"**

Gus's phone rings. He looks at the Caller ID. "Excuse me," he says and steps outside the house.

"**Reassurance"**

"Mr. Spencer."

Henry rubs agitatedly at the back of his neck. "Gus," he says. "Hey." He doesn't know where to go from there, doesn't know how to ask what he needs to ask. "I wanted . . . well, I mean I was thinking . . you know it's not that . . . I just wanted . . ."

"Shawn's okay," Gus tells him, and Henry breathes a sigh of relief.

"**One Second Later"**

"Actually, we're working a case for the department right now."

"You're _WHAT_?"

"**Vision"**

"I'm getting something, it's . . . it's . . . the letter B. Bee . . . bees . . .beekeeper . . .Big Bird . . . no . . . Big Ben . . . no . . . barnyard . . . Baywatch . . . book store . . . no, no . . . bookies . . . book em, Danno . . . bookcase! It's under the bookcase!"

There is something underneath the bookcase. It's red, and it starts with the letter B too.

"**Obvious"**

Back at the office, Shawn writes down a list of suspects. First on the list is Jeremy Beckham, Janine Winslow's ex-boyfriend. "Apparently," Shawn says, "he's got a violent temper, keys to the apartment, and no alibi for the night Janine went missing."

Gus thinks about this. "So he has method, motive, and opportunity."

"Yup."

"So he's the perfect suspect."

"Yup."

"And the cops like him for it?"

"Yup."

Gus sighs. "It's not him, is it?"

"Of course not, Gus. What fun would that be?"

"**Reservations"**

Abigail stops by the Psych office. Shawn is sitting on top of his desk. He's using one of Gus's expensive ties as a blindfold and eating Apple Jacks from a coffee mug. She doesn't even ask.

"We need to talk," she tells him. "Are you free later?"

"Sure," Shawn says, taking off the blindfold. "How does filet mignon via Easy Bake Oven sound?"

She smiles wistfully at him and nods. "Like you," she says tell him quietly.

"**Insistence"**

Henry can't yell at someone who won't pick up his phone, so he yells at Karen instead. "You can't let him stay on this case!"

"Henry—"

"It's too soon, Karen. He's not ready. I demand you remove Shawn right now!"

. . . Karen has never taken to demands very well.

"**Promise"**

"You talk to me in that tone of voice again, Mr. Spencer, and I will personally see to it that those fish trophies you prize so highly are sold at the local flea market and that the proceeds go to the Santa Barbara High School's musical rendition of Twilight. _Goodbye_."

"**Dinner"**

"We need to talk."

"We are talking," Shawn reminds her. "We can switch topics, if you want. I suggest the complicated sexual dynamics between Smurfette and the rest of the Smurfs. No? Fuzzy Wuzzy? You're a teacher. I demand to know why Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn't very fuzzy."

"Shawn."

"I'm just saying, it's kind of false advertising for—"

"Shawn!"

Shawn sighs, puts down his fork. "Yeah," he says. "Okay."

"**Exchange"**

"She's going where?"

Shawn slumps down on the couch. "Japan," he says into the phone. "Some foreign exchange program for kids. For three months. What do five year olds need to do in Japan for three months, anyway? We've got Sailor Moon and that Poke-Thing right here."

"Pokemon," Gus says. "And it's a wonderful, well-developed anime, Shawn."

"Oh. My. God."

"**Deadline"**

Shawn's searching through the motel room, and Gus, who's also a Chia Pet, says, "I think you're missing something." Shawn knows it. He searches faster. But the clock keeps ticking, ticking, ticking, and he's running out of time, and he doesn't know what he's supposed to be looking for. He doesn't know what he's supposed to _see_—

Suddenly, Janine Winslow is sitting on the queen-sized bed. There's blood spreading across her stomach. The clock stops ticking. Then it explodes.

"You should be dead too," she tells him.

Shawn wakes up.

"**Practice"**

There's a 24-hour diner near his apartment. Shawn's been frequenting it pretty regularly for the past few weeks. The clock says 3:37 AM when he enters and orders a slice of pie. His appetite's only so-so, but he's not really coming for the food.

The waitress serves him a cup of coffee without having to ask. Shawn takes a sip, closes his eyes. _How many hats, Shawn; how many hats?_ Only two. Easy question. _How many orders of pancakes? How many menus? How many green shirts? How many pineapples?_

He gets all the answers right. _I'm sharper than I've ever been_. He doesn't miss a thing.

But it's only a matter of time.

"**Violation"**

Lassiter walks into the station at 0600 hours. He's not a morning person by nature, but he has learned to become one in recent years. Morning is now his favorite part of the day. Spencer doesn't wake before noon, at best.

Except—there he is, in the Chief's office, flopping his arms around and speaking only in rhyme for no apparent reason at all. This is supposed to be Lassiter's sacred time.

Lassiter yells at McNab for something insignificant. It makes him feel a little better.

"**Technicalities"**

"You did not. Shawn, you did not."

"Buddy, you're going to learn to have to trust me on—"

"Shawn, you did not give the Chief a suspect based on the fact that you think his name is creepy."

"Come on, Gus, Grady Beatty? That is clearly the name of a sociopath. Someone who goes around kidnapping girls and making ash trays out of their hands and feet."

"First, that's sick. Secondly, Grady Beatty doesn't actually rhyme—"

"Gus! That's like saying game and rain don't rhyme."

"They don't, Shawn."

"What—"

"Third, do you have _any _evidence against this guy, _other_ than his non-rhyming name?

Shawn squints at him. "You think that's important?" he asks.

"**Diary"**

They're back at Janine Winslow's place. Shawn sifts through the girl's things while Gus brings absolutely _nothing _to the table. (_"I have to study, SHAWN. This isn't my only job, remember?"_) Shawn finds a journal in the air vent. "Listen to this," he says as he flips open the book. "I feel eyes on me, all the time. I think maybe Jeremy's been following me . . . but even now, inside my own home, I feel like, god, I don't know. Watched."

Shawn snaps the journal shut. "See? Who has better opportunity to stalk Janine than her creepy apartment manager? It's totally Grady Beatty, man!"

"I'm not convinced, Shawn. And even if it is him, his name still doesn't rhyme."

"Gus!"

"Gray-DEE BAIT-ee, Shawn."

"Oh, come on!"

"Gray-DEE. BAIT-ee."

"**Neighbor"**

Shawn spends twenty minutes looking around for a hidden camera in Janine Winslow's place, but he's finding nothing fast, and Gus needs some jerk chicken. He steps outside, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Shawn's coming, and accidentally runs right into someone. The guy's carrying a bag of groceries, and he startles backwards.

"Sorry," he says to the guy. "My bad."

"That's okay," the guy says. He's wearing a bolo tie. Who _does_ that in this decade? "Hey, are you guys cops? Janine's my friend. I live in that apartment right there. Is she okay? Have you guys found her yet?"

"No," Shawn says, stepping next to Gus. "Sorry, man. Not yet." He grills the guy—Tim Caspars—for a minute, but Tim doesn't seem to know anything, and Shawn eventually lets him go. They watch him walk into his apartment. Then Shawn looks at Gus. "I changed my mind," he says. "He did it."

Gus rolls his eyes.

"**Fashion"**

"But he was wearing a _bolo tie_, Gus."

"Let it go."

"**Buddies"**

"Sorry, guys," Jules tells them. "Grady Beatty's alibi checks."

"Any other bright ideas?" Lassiter asks, snippier than is really necessary. Shawn sits up straighter, ready to tell them all about Bolo Tie Tim. Gus elbows him in the stomach.

"Not yet," Shawn says reluctantly and steps on Gus's foot as hard as he can.

"**Blind Spot"**

He's missing something. He knows it. It's right there, right beyond his grasp. If he could just see what he's missing, he could crack this case; he could find Janine. He could make the nightmares stop. If Shawn could just figure this out, he could fix everything.

But he can't see it. He just can't _see_ it.

What's killing him is his dad could probably help. If Shawn had been on this case two weeks ago, he'd be over there by now, doing whatever ridiculous chore he had to do in order for his dad to point him in the right direction. He frowns at the phone, almost picks it up. Shawn really needs some help with this.

"_I'm telling you that you got shot. Deal with it and move on."_

But whatever help he needs, he isn't going to get it from Henry Spencer.

"**Invitation"**

"What do you say, Henry? You and me this weekend, some beer and a boatload of fish just waiting to be caught?"

Henry wants to . . . but he just can't. "Sorry, Karl. Maybe some other time."

"**Goodbyes"**

Abigail tells Shawn that she can buy another ticket. She can stow him in her suitcase. She can bribe someone into giving up his seat. "You can come with me," she tells him at the terminal. "You can sing Mr. Roboto to me every single day, and I won't even complain."

But Shawn just shakes his head.

"**4:00 am"**

Three hats. One order of pancakes. Two pairs of mismatched socks.

Shawn glances at his watch and wonders how long a person can go without sleep before they go all Norman Bates and/or die.

"**Warning"**

Later, Juliet will realize it was the crash. They're sitting at her desk, talking about the case, and a loud banging sound comes from outside—the roof of the station's being fixed, and one of the guys accidentally kicks most of his toolset to the ground below. Shawn startles so hard at the sound that he drops the smoothie that he's been drinking. Carlton says something Carlton would say, and Shawn doesn't respond at all. She should have put that together, but she doesn't. Not until later.

Forty-five minutes later, Juliet mentions that Shawn looks tired, and Shawn just . . .

He freaks out.

"**Snap"**

"How many times do I have to tell you people—I'm fine, okay, I'm _FINE_! I'm cherries on an ice cream sundae fine, so just do me a little favor here, Jules, and leave me _the fuck alone_!" _

"**Combust"**

It's not that Spencer doesn't lose his temper, but . . . it's never been like this. Lassiter's too far away in the station to hear the words, but he does see the way Spencer explodes off O'Hara's desk, violent, like he's about to hit her. Spencer is many, many things . . . ridiculous, juvenile, infuriating, soul-crushing . . . but violent, he is not. By the time Lassiter storms over to his partner's desk, Spencer's backed off. He's out of breath, both pale and red, and looks like he's about to pass out.

But none of that is Lassiter's problem.

"Get the _hell_ out of here," Lassiter snaps. Shawn blinks at him, opens his mouth, and then shakes his head like he's trying to clear it. He turns away from them and literally runs out of the station. Guster, who's been frozen like a statue for the last three minutes, looks at Lassiter. Lassiter nods at him, and Guster takes off after his friend.

O'Hara is carefully sitting down in her chair. Lassiter kneels in front of her. "Are you okay?" he asks.

She doesn't look at him. "I'm fine, Carlton."

"**Shell-Shocked"**

Shawn's standing on the steps facing the street when Gus finds him. He approaches carefully, wary of spooking his friend. "Shawn?"

Shawn turns slowly. His eyes are huge and hopeless and confused. "I . . . I don't know why I just did that."

Gus doesn't know either.

He touches Shawn on the shoulder tentatively. Shawn bites down on his lip.

"**Light bulb"**

Gus needs to make Shawn smile. Fast. He's just been sitting at his desk for hours, eating M&Ms out of the smoke alarm and staring blankly at the television. Gus turned American Duos on, and Shawn hasn't snarked at it once. Clearly, this is critical.

He tells his best pharmaceutical jokes. He improvs with various objects around the room. Shawn responds to none of it, just keeps despondently eating those M&Ms, focused on nothing. Gus sighs and quietly tells him, "I'm sure she'll forgive you," he says.

Shawn starts to say something and then stops. He stares at smoke alarm dispenser with a look that Gus knows all too well. Gus kneels in front of him.

"Well?" he asks. "What'd you figure out?"

"**Eyes"**

Shawn jumps out of the Psychmobile and bounds up the stairs, taking three at a time. The muscles in his stomach shriek in protest, but he ignores them. He ignores them like he ignores Gus downstairs and his dad's voice in his head, telling him to slow down. He can't slow down, not now. He breaks into Janine's apartment using one of Gus's credit cards and pulls down the smoke detector from the kitchen ceiling. Gus finally makes it through the front door, and Shawn shows him what he's found. "What the . . ." Gus says.

Because what's there, but probably shouldn't be, is a little, tiny camera hidden inside.

"**Tip"**

O'Hara's packing up her stuff to leave for the night when Lassiter's phone rings. It's Guster. "Shawn's had a vision," he says. "He thinks you guys should check out the smoke alarms at Janine Winslow's apartment."

Lassiter pauses. "He doesn't want to meet us there? Flail around a little? Speak a bunch of gibberish?"

"No."

Lassiter can feel O'Hara's eyes on him. "He isn't okay, is he?"

Guster's voice is very careful. "I think he's trying to be."

"**Worried"**

There's a knock on her door. It's Lassiter. "Detective," Karen says. "Did Mr. Spencer's vision pan out this time?"

Lassiter nods but doesn't elaborate. He sits down across from Karen, concern shuttering his eyes. In this light, they look more grey than blue. She sets down her paperwork immediately. "What is it, Carlton?"

"I think we need to talk," he says. "About Spencer."

"**2:56 am"**

Shawn's sitting near the back, eyes closed, fingers clenched around a coffee cup. She isn't sure what's keeping him awake at this point, the caffeine or white-knuckling the porcelain cup, but it's clear that where he needs to be is at home in bed. She slides into the booth across from him, and he all but jumps out of his skin, eyes flying open, cup rattling in his hands. "Shawn," she says. "Shawn, it's just me."

Shawn's breath hitches in his throat, and she swears that she can see tears in his eyes, if only for a moment. "Oh, Shawn," she says softly.

He forces a smile. "Jules. Hey."

"Hey."

A waitress comes by to take their order. Juliet orders herself a piece of apple pie. Shawn says that he doesn't want anything. Juliet orders him a piece too. He doesn't argue, just stares down at the tabletop for a long time. Finally, when the pie arrives, he manages to look up at her. "Jules," he says. "I'm so sorry."

She takes his hand. "I know," she tells him. "It's okay."

"**Radio Silence"**

She's already left three messages on his phone. This is message number four. "Shawn," Abigail says. "Shawn, talk to me. What's going on? Just . . . just call me, okay?"

She thinks about high school, searching for him on that pier, and waits almost a minute before she hangs up.

"**Doubt"**

"Gus? How's Shawn been doing? Gus?"

But Gus doesn't know how to answer that anymore.

"**Decision"**

"Mr. Spencer," Gus says finally. "You're going to have to figure out how to ask him that yourself."

"**Talk"**

Another day of dead ends on the Winslow case. The boyfriend is looking less and less like a viable suspect—he can barely spell the word camera, much less rig smoke alarms with them—and the cameras themselves don't seem to lead back anywhere. Karen finishes reading Detective Lassiter's report and sighs. She hopes they'll have better luck tomorrow.

There's a knock at the door. Karen sighs again, gestures for Shawn to come in. His grin is quick, but his movements are sluggish and his jeans are two skipped meals from sliding right off of him. "Sit," she tells him, and when he does, she doesn't want taste time. "I'm concerned, Mr. Spencer."

"Chief, I'm—"

"Stop talking, now." Remarkably, he does, and Karen takes another careful look at him. She has couch cushions that are the same shade of purple as the circles under his eyes. "You've done good work here, Mr. Spencer, and I consider you a member of my team. But," she says, before he can interrupt, "no one person can be more important than the job. If you're not ready, I need to know. Are you ready?"

Shawn's hands fidget but he holds her gaze. "I'm ready, Chief."

She purses her lips. "We'll see," she says finally. "Well. It's late. Go home for the night. Get something to eat. If I remember correctly, your dad makes a pretty mean steak. Maybe he can—"

"No."

The quiet vehemence behind his interruption startles her more than the interruption itself. "All right," she says slowly, "but I don't want to see you until tomorrow morning. We're clear?"

Shawn nods. "Clear," he says. He leaves her office without further comment and she looks after him thoughtfully. Detective Lassiter was right. There's definitely something wrong.

It seems she has a few people to call.

"**Greeting"**

When he and Gus arrive at the station, the Chief is waiting for them out front. She has perfected her Game Face sometime during the night. It's now more like Kill Face, or maybe just Argue-With-Me-Or-Even-Breathe-Funny-and-I-Will-Slice-Up-Your-Body-In-So-Many-Parts-That-No-One-Will-Ever-Find-It face. Buzz accidentally gets a hint of it from nearby and practically runs crying in the other direction.

"Well," Shawn says to Gus. "This can't be good."

"**Mandatory"**

"Wait, what does my jawbone have to do with anything?"

Gus rolls his eyes. "That's _mandible_, Shawn."

"I thought that was Chinese."

"That's _Mandarin_."

"Okay, I'm confused. What's mandatory again?"

Chief Vick smiled thinly. "That would be your session with the department psychologist."

"Ah."

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Once again, I've written too much and have been forced to split my "last" chapter into two. But because I'm nice (and because I couldn't stand the thought of saying, "Seriously, guys, only more chap to go. I mean it this time!") I've posted both chapters simultaneously.

Thanks to everyone who's been patient enough to stick with me through this story. I hope you like the end. Psych Season 5, baby! It's almost here : )

"**Meet N Greet"**

The department shrink, Dr. Martinez, isn't nearly as cool as Mom. He doesn't get any of Shawn's 80's references, not even the patently obvious ones. He's also got a Burt Reynolds 'stache. It must frighten animals and small children everywhere.

"Let's talk about the shooting," Dr. Martinez says, and Shawn's like, _Let's not, Smokey_. Out loud, he says, "The one on Models Inc? I know, right? I'm still on the edge of my seat. Sometimes, I don't even know what to do with myself. How will I ever find out who got hit?"

Dr. Martinez doesn't even pretend to smile. "Not that one," he says, and Shawn sighs.

It's going to be a long sixty minutes.

"**Feelings"**

"How do you think it's going?"

"I don't known. Shawn's not really crazy about therapists."

"His mother's a therapist."

"That probably has something to do with it."

"Oh, I thought they got along. They seemed so close when she visited, and, well . . ."

"Got kidnapped?"

"Yeah."

"They're close. I mean, he'd do anything for her; it's just . . . it's complicated, I guess. You know with her leaving and all. Anyway, you know Shawn. Ask him what two plus two is . . ."

"And he'll tell you he doesn't know, but isn't his hair amazing and so much better than that guy's hair from the Mentalist?"

"Exactly. I'm less worried about Shawn's sanity than I am about the doctor's."

"Not me."

"Yeah. Me either . . . you know, he's really sorry for, uh . . ."

"Screaming in my face?"

"Well, yeah."

"I know. It's okay. I just want him to get better. Do you think the Chief should have taken him off the case? That's standard procedure, you know."

"I know, but . . . no. I'm glad she didn't. I don't know how Shawn would have reacted, but I don't think it would have ended well. I think he needs to know he's doing something."

"You're probably right. I'm sure everything will be okay . . . do you think—"

"Oh, for the love of all that is holy!" Lassiter slams his hands down on the desk, startling both Gus and Juliet. "Anyone who wants to talk about Spencer's _feelings_ can go outside. Anyone who wants to _find a missing girl before she's just another body washing up on shore _can stay here. Can you two handle that?"

Juliet smiles apologetically and gets back to work.

Gus goes to wait for Shawn outside.

"**Comfort Food"**

Shawn opens the passenger side door and flops inside the car. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes. Gus winces. "That bad, huh?"

"On a scale of 1-10, it was ohmygod my brain is _melting_."

"That's pretty bad," Gus agrees. "Jerk chicken?"

Shawn looks at him. "You always know just what to say."

"**Friendly Request"**

Henry is at the market when Karen strolls up, arms crossed, watching him. She doesn't say anything, just stands there, a contemplative smile gracing her face. "If you're waiting for me to apologize," Henry says, "forget it."

Her smile widens. "Let's go to lunch," Karen says.

"**Retired"**

"How long have you and Shawn been fighting?"

Henry glowers at her, but Karen hasn't shrunk away from a Spencer glower in years. "I don't see how that's any of your business."

"Shawn's a member of my department, and my department is my business. And you're my friend, even if you're a miserable old grump who couldn't spit out an apology to save his life."

"Karen—"

"Henry, your son needs you."

Henry snorts. "Shawn hasn't needed me for a long time. He doesn't listen. He just wants the quick fix, the easy way out, and no consequences. Well, sometimes there are consequences, and I'm tired of trying to teach him that. He's going to continue to pull his dumb ass stunts, and it's going to get him . . . I'm just done. I'm done with it. It's his life. He can do whatever the hell he wants. He always has."

"**Repetition"**

Lassiter hangs up the phone on another dead end. He looks over at his partner. "Anything?"

O'Hara shakes her head.

Lassiter sighs, picks up the phone, and starts dialing again.

"**Advice"**

Karen pays for the bill and stands up from the table. "Just trust me on this, Henry. Whatever you did, whatever you said . . . family wants to forgive you. They want to, so let them."

"**Goad"**

Rafael Martinez watches his patient speculatively. Shawn Spencer is, without a doubt, one of the most colorful clients he's had in 20 years of practicing. He's also proving to be remarkably adept at avoiding any kind of genuine reaction. "So, you have visions."

"Sure do!" Shawn says, bobbing his head enthusiastically. "I see all kinds of things, ghosts, monsters, little rainbow-colored men singing Showtunes and telling me to burn things. You don't think that's a bad sign, do you?"

"Shawn, I'm not here to judge your abilities. If you've convinced _the Chief_ that you're a psychic . . . well, let's just say that goes a long way to cementing your credibility. I only asked because I wanted to clarify something: you say you psychically saw Victor Matheson kill three people."

"Yup." Shawn taps his forehead. "All up here."

Rafe studies him, gauging his voice carefully. "But you failed to see that Victor would almost kill you."

He finally gets the reaction he was pushing for.

"**Shatter"**

Shawn can tell that he's breathing too fast. He knows it, but he can't slow down. The glass of water is lying in pieces, the wet carpet bleeding a darker blue. Shawn knows he's the one who threw it there . . . but there was no decision to do so, no control with the action. It was fury and fear and release. That's what his life has broken down to.

"Shawn?"

Shawn blinks and swallows hard. He tears his gaze from the glass and smiles at the doctor. _Well_, he thinks, _there goes convincing him that I'm all sane now._

"**Shawn Almighty"**

"Can you explain why that question made you so angry?"

Shawn's clearly shaken. "I didn't mean to," he says, but Rafe already knows that.

"That's okay. Just try to relax."

Shawn leans back in his chair but doesn't relax, his arms crossing protectively against his chest. "I really can see things," he tells Rafe. "Things other people don't; things other people can't. I . . . I don't know why I didn't see what was about to happen." He fiddles with his thumbs, glancing up hesitantly, clearly wrestling with what to admit and what to keep hidden and safe. "Since the shooting, I've been . . . honing my gift, sharpening it, trying to make my visions clearer. I let my guard down before. I won't miss anything this time."

"This time?"

Shawn's jaw clenches. "Any time."

"Shawn." Rafe sets down his notebook and leans forward to catch his client's eye. "Everyone is fallible. Everyone misses things. To see everything is . . . to be God."

Shawn's smile is a child's smile, sunny and confident in things that cannot and will not ever exist. "Guess I'll have to be God, then" he says. "Don't worry. I'll do better than Jim Carrey ever did."

"**Diagnosis"**

Just before the session is over, Dr. Martinez says, "Shawn, I'm concerned that you're showing some signs of hypervigilance. It's a very common symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder. In layman's terms, it means that you're obsessively focusing on every possible detail and danger around you."

The good doctor frowns when Shawn starts laughing at him.

"Sorry. Sorry, man, it's just . . . clearly, you've never met my dad."

"**Best Intentions"**

" . . . or don't, because I'm a psychic and I know what you want."

"Shawn. Shawn, it's . . . it's your dad. Just calling to, uh, check in and, uh, say . . . say that . . . you know you left your stupid game on my kitchen table with the punching and the robots; what's it called . . . Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots, that's a stupid name; anyway, it's right here taking up space on my kitchen table, and you're always doing this, leaving stuff behind and never thinking about the consequences, about how it might affect _my_ day, _my_ plans, and I think you should know that—BEEP."

Henry hangs up the phone and drops his head in his hands.

"**Event Planner"**

Juliet wants to throw a party. It's been ages since she's thrown a good party—admittedly, the last one didn't turn out so well, and it took three weeks for her partner to say anything to her other than a barked order or a disgruntled comment about "that clown Spencer," but, hey, the past is the past, right? Anyway, Shawn's still alive, still on his feet and back to work, and even if things have been . . . different . . . lately, being alive is the kind of occasion that calls for a celebration.

She mentions the party to Buzz, who's equally excited, and then to Carlton. His reaction surprises her.

"Not yet. Let's wait until we solve this case."

Juliet isn't sure what to say to that. The fact that Carlton's willing to go to a party in honor of Shawn Spencer at all is . . . well . . . earth-shaking, and Juliet fumbles with the five reasons she was planning to provide on why his attendance is necessary. Eventually, she says gently, "Not every case gets solved." Because she's an optimist, always has been, but Janine's chances of being found alive dropped radically three days ago.

Lassiter just says, "O'Hara. _Wait_."

So she does.

"**Escape Attempt"**

"I still think that Bolo Tie Tim is—"

"No, Shawn."

"Gus, it's not like we have a lot of other suspects. We should sneak into his place and try to find something."

"Like the neighbor he shoved under his bed and just forgot to mention? No, Shawn. Isn't it time for your session?"

"God, _again_? Hey, buddy, how about we go see that Vin Diesel movie instead—"

"No, Shawn."

"Planetarium?"

"Stop it, Shawn."

"Church?"

"Wow."

"So, can we—"

"No, Shawn."

"**The Best Cowboys Have Daddy Issues"**

Shawn sits down for his appointment, and the first thing out of the doctor's mouth is, "So, let's talk about your father."

Shawn starts to laugh.

"**Childhood"**

"So, he always wanted you to be a cop? That's interesting. That must have put a lot of pressure on you."

"Yeah. There was also that time he locked me in a trunk."

Rafe smiles gently. "Shawn, I can't help you if you don't tell me the truth."

Shawn just looks at him.

"Oh," Rafe says. "Oh, I see."

"**Clue"**

Once the (torture) session is over, Shawn goes to Janine's apartment, mostly because he doesn't know what else to do. There has to be something else he's missing. There has to be.

There's not.

Disgusted, he starts to head for his bike. He's not alone in the parking lot. Bolo Tie Tim is there, getting out of his car and smoking a cigarette.

Shawn grins and reaches for his phone.

"**Evidence"**

"So?"

"So? Gus, don't be the redneck sheriff who believes that four missing teenagers and a pool of blood equals teenage pranks and tomfoolery. Only bad guys ever smoke, man. Don't you watch movies?"

"Goodbye, Shawn."

"**Break"**

Karen's surprised when Henry asks her to lunch but thankful for the chance to get away from the station. She's spent most of the morning talking to the mayor. Politics are a necessary part of her job, but that doesn't mean she has to like them.

"So," she says, after they've ordered. "Did you talk to Shawn yet?"

Henry glares in a sort of directionless way. He's really the only man she knows that can appear to be disagreeable with the very air around him. "I left a message," he says shortly.

"And in the message you spoke calmly, let your son know you love him, and didn't criticize him in anyway?"

He doesn't say anything.

"Oh, Henry," she sighs.

"**Entry"**

What he needs, Shawn muses, is a motive. Also a body, also a single shred of physical evidence . . . but he'll start with a motive. That will get Gus on his side.

He rings the doorbell to Bolo Tie Tim's apartment.

The door opens. "Can I—hey I know you. You're working with the police, right? The—"

"The Amazing Shawn Spencer, yes. Psychic, Patriot, Group Hugger, and Girl Scout Enthusiast. I was going to see if you wanted to purchase any delicious cookies, but now . . . yes, now I'm definitely feeling something, some big, negative, thunderstorm of super dark energy. Excuse me."

Bolo Tie Tim sputters. Shawn steps past him into the apartment.

"**Fear"**

"He's just stubborn," Henry says and points his finger at Karen before she can say anything. "Don't even start. Shawn's more stubborn than I will ever be. He's stubborn and he's _reckless_. Kid doesn't think he can die."

"Maybe he didn't," Karen says. "I wouldn't be so sure about now."

Henry waves this away. "You know what I was doing when Shawn got shot? I was fishing. _Fishing_. My kid was gasping for his last breath, and I . . . He won't let me protect him, Karen. He won't let me keep him safe, and I don't know what to do about that. I don't know what to do."

"**Snoop"**

There's nothing for him to find. Tim knows that; he's sure, but still, this psychic character wandering around poking at things is making him nervous. Tim can't afford to throw him out, though. He might become suspicious. "I really don't know what you're talking about. There's no negative ener—what are you doing in my bathroom?"

The psychic raises his head from the cabinet under the sink. "Let's face it, Tim," he says, standing. "The bathroom is where most dark, foul-smelling energy comes from. Not here, though, not here. Your bathroom is as clean as Gus's feet."

Tim thinks Gus might be the man who was with the psychic before, but he doesn't have time to ask, because the psychic . . . or maybe the _crazy_ man . . . is already moving into Tim's bedroom, eyes scanning everything. This is just taking things too far. "I really don't think you should be in her—"

"You don't have a girlfriend, do you?"

"I—"

"I didn't think so. What about Janine? Did you like her?" Tim opens his mouth (_careful, careful_) and the crazy man nods as though he actually answered. "Yes, I could sense that was the case. I bet she didn't give you the time of day, though, right? Women. Here you are, a young, fine specimen of manhood, and I bet all she did was moon over jocks or pretty boys or that ex-boyfriend of hers—"

"She isn't like that!" Tim shouts, unable to stop himself. "And she doesn't care about that loser! She's better than that! She's not a _whore_!"

The psychic backs up a bit. "Uh," he says, "you know, you are so totally right about that. My psychic vibes are all over the map today. You know what else they were wrong about? That dark energy, it's not coming from your apartment at all! It's totally coming from my stomach, man. Bad Mexican, it happens to the best of us. Uh, excuse me."

The psychic runs out of the apartment. Tim blinks.

"**Beg"**

"C'mon, buddy! There's like nothing in this guy's place! He didn't even have a toothbrush! _Exactly_. I think he's living somewhere else, maybe wherever he's stashed Janine. I'll admit, I thought she was already dead, but what if she's alive, Gus? Maybe he keeps coming back here to try and, I don't know, keep tabs on the investigation or something? What? I don't _need_ evidence, Gus; I'm a psychic! Well, okay, if you're going to be all literal about the definition of a psychic, but . . . come on, dude, I've got motive. He's clearly the creepiest example of Ducky love I've ever seen. No, no, don't—stop saying no, Shawn! Look, he won't stay here very long, I think. If we tail him, we can find her. If we find her, we can get paid. If we get paid, I'll give a mouse a cookie, and, _and_ buy you a churro. Gus? Gus? Dammit!"

"**Phone Skills"**

Lassiter is about to take a break—O'Hara's already left for lunch, and he's getting nowhere on the Winslow case fast—when his phone rings. It's Spencer.

"Lassie-face, you gotta pick me up! I've got it! I've so go it!"

Lassiter listens to what Spencer's 'got.' "So one crackpot theory and no evidence to support it . . . nice work, Spencer. Let me get right on that."

"Really? Wow, I thought you'd just ignore me and slam the phone do—"

Lassiter hangs up.

"**Persuasion"**

He picks up on the fourth ring. "Spencer—"

"Dude. What other leads do you have?"

Lassiter sighs. "I'll meet you in ten," he says.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: And now, the conclusion!

"**Just Like Old Times"**

In the car, Spencer's less talkative than usual. That is, he talks as much as any normal person would. It's refreshing and unnerving all at the same time. O'Hara would surely ask something sensitive and well-meaning, but Lassiter isn't O'Hara, so he doesn't say much except remind Shawn that if this is a waste of time, it's Spencer's ass that's on the line.

He's missed threatening Spencer with jail time. He should try to do it more often.

"**Low Blow"**

They're parked outside of a small, white house. The mailbox says Caspars on it. "I think this is his parents' place."

Lassiter nods. "Of course. Our only suspect has gone to see his Mommy. Great. Mystery solved."

Shawn rolls his eyes. He opens the door, ready to climb out, and Lassie grabs him by the wrist. "You know," Shawn says, "I've missed this. Lately, you just haven't manhandled me the way you used to. It makes a boy feel unloved."

Lassiter ignores this. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

"Where do you think, Lassie Face? I want a closer look."

The grip on his wrist tightens. "We can't search the place," the detective reminds him. "We don't have probable cause. And if Caspars really did abduct Janine Winslow, he's dangerous, and you're still a civilian."

Shawn grins. "Aw, Lassie! You're worried about me? I'm touched."

Lassiter glares at him. "Spencer," he says evenly, "did you ever consider that this exactly the kind of stunt that got you shot in the first place?"

"**Smile Like You Mean It"**

Spencer doesn't have an immediate comeback to that one. Lassiter wants to count it as a victory, but it feels a little cheaply earned. Lassiter barely has time for regret, though, because Spencer puts together a grin that looks as genuine as a spray-on tan. He shakes out of Lassiter's hold.

"Can't live forever," Spencer says lightly. "Come on."

"**Mary Jane's Last Dance"**

"Ohmygod. This is just like that Tom Petty video. And Janine Winslow is Mary Jane, with the dancing and the dress and the—ohmygod, she's still alive. Lassie, she's still alive."

Lassiter leans forward to get a better look through the window. It's definitely Janine Winslow, all right. She's wearing an old-fashioned wedding dress and a matching white veil. She's also barely conscious. Caspars doesn't appear to be too troubled by that. He spins her around the living room to a slow song Lassiter remembers from his own wedding—"I Only Have Eyes For You."

As usual, Lassiter has no idea what asinine thing Spencer's referring to now . . . but even he has to admit, the whole scene is pretty creepy.

He turns to Spencer who's crouching beside him. "You," he says. "Get back in the car. Radio for back up and _stay there_."

It's a testament to how much has changed that Spencer doesn't even argue with him.

"**SOS"**

"_Hey, uh, mayday, mayday, how do you even work this—oh, hey can anyone hear me? This is Shawn Spencer, and no, I am not, in fact, talking to you through your mind. I could do that, if I wanted to, but actually Lassie and I are at 3560 Bellway Court, requesting loads of backup, preferably with guns, to take down this psycho who has Janine Winslow in his mom's house . . . I feel quite strongly that we're going to find his mother's body strapped to a chair in the cellar. In fact, she's speaking to me now, so I have to go, but seriously. Come with guns."_

"**Hesitation"**

Shawn sits in the driver's seat, arms huddled tightly around his stomach. He can't just sit here . . . Lassidophilus might need him, and anyway, he can't just start doing what people tell him to. Why, if he does that, then who knows what could happen—Gus could start recklessly throwing caution to the wind; Henry could start hugging people; _Patrick Dempsey's hair could spontaneously fall off_.

In other words, the whole world could collapse.

Besides, how's Juliet going to look at him if she finds him cowering _again_ . . . and what would the Chief say . . . the other cops . . . his Dad . . .

Shawn's hand is on the door. All he has to do is open it.

But fear is making him breathless, and his heart's beating like it's on steroids, and he's only been this scared once, when his mom was one light touch away from blowing up into pieces.

"**High"**

Janine can't feel her feet. She can't feel much of anything . . . the house is too shiny and her head feels too light, like it's not a head at all but a balloon that could float away from her neck at any moment. She almost wishes it would. She doesn't know how long Tim's been holding her here, drugging her, dressing her in someone else's clothing, but it feels like years since she's been home. Tim says that they're married, that he loves her and that she loves him . . . and Janine knows that if she doesn't get out of this crazy freaking_ nut job's_ house soon, she might even start to believe it.

She has to escape. She has to get out of here.

But she can't even feel her feet.

Opening her eyes is a struggle. Tim's twirling her around the living room, making her dizzy, but she sees something . . . something important . . . something like . . . eyes. Nose. A face. A face looking at her through . . . what? Water? Are they somehow underwater? No, no a window.

Her mouth moves. "Help," she tries to tell the face. "Help."

The face goes away, but not before Tim turns around and sees it.

"**Intruder"**

Tim whirls around. He recognizes the detective at the window, and he instantly goes for the letter opener on the desk, putting it to Janine's throat. The cops, they'll try to take her. No one will take her, _no one_. She's _his_. He loves her. If he has to kill her to keep her, then so be it.

"Dude," a voice says from behind him. "You keep your back door unlocked? Tim, I think we should talk about a few things to do when you kidnap somebody. And fashion. Seriously, Timmy. A bolo tie? Honestly, I'm a little embarrassed for you."

"**Big Reveal"**

The good news is that Bolo Tie Tim doesn't have a gun. The bad news is, well, Janine's still in danger; back up isn't here yet, and Shawn's knees are shaking, like, literally. He _sounds_ pretty fearless, though. Tim's the one who sounds freaked. "She loves me," Tim practically screams at him. "She loves me, don't you understand? Baby, tell him you love me!"

"That would probably work better if you hadn't drugged her," Shawn mentions helpfully. "Or if you weren't a psycho who stalked and kidnapped her. Girls don't really go for that these days."

He sees Lassiter approaching silently from behind. He must have found an open window to sneak through. Or maybe the front door was unlocked too. Bolo Tie Tim is _really _bad at this. Shawn needs to keep his attention. He puts a hand to his head, trying not to think about how his last big wrap up went.

He doesn't want Gus in danger, but Shawn still can't help wishing he were here.

"At first," Shawn tells Tim, "you were okay just watching Janine, right? You got into her apartment and installed cameras in the smoke alarms. That way you could look at her whenever you wanted. But then, something changed . . . you asked her out." He has no evidence for this, but thankfully, the look on Tim's face confirms it, so he continues.

"And because you're creepy and you wear a bolo tie, she said no. That made you pretty angry, right, Tim? I can see it now, a fight, a struggle in her apartment. You pushed her, and she hit her head. You couldn't get the blood out of the carpet, right? So you just pushed the bookcase to cover the stain. And then you took her here, to your mom's place, where you two could be alone together. I get it, Tim, I do. I mean, every guy gets rejected at some point . . . well, not me . . . but other guys, totally, all the time, man. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Just . . . just let her go, okay? Just let her go. You don't really want to hurt her, do you?"

"I'd never hurt her!" Tim screams. Shawn opens his mouth to make the obvious point, and Tim kind of shrieks, pulling the letter opener away from Janine's throat so he can direct it towards Shawn. "It's you; you're making me hurt her. It's your fault. It's your—_ow_!"

Lassiter's bullet goes straight through Tim's hand. He drops the letter opener to the floor. Shawn scrambles forward, pulling Janine away, while Lassiter slams Bolo Tie Tim into the wall. As soon as Tim's handcuffed, Lassiter turns to Shawn. "What part of stay in the car did you _not_—"

"Dude," Shawn says, wrinkling his nose. "Do you smell that?"

"**Mommy Dearest"**

They find her in the cellar. She's clearly been dead for some time. The wedding dress Janine's wearing probably belonged to her, back when she was young and the back of her skull wasn't caved in. She's even in the chair.

"Damn," Shawn says. "I'm good."

"**Certainty"**

When Juliet arrives with the rest of the backup, it's clear that they're no longer needed. Lassiter takes Tim Caspars back to the station, and Janine Winslow goes to the hospital to be checked out. Juliet ends up giving Shawn a ride back to his motorcycle. He's mostly silent on the way, fidgeting in the front seat beside her. She wonders how long it will take before things are back to normal between them, if things ever _could_ have been considered normal between them.

"You did good today," Juliet tells him before he gets out of the car. "We got her back alive. Honestly, I didn't think we would."

"Me too," Shawn says, and he laughs a little. "Bet she won't go on a date anytime soon. Something like that's gotta screw with your head for a _lifetime_."

Jules looks at him, wondering. "She'll be okay," she tells him.

Shawn holds her gaze. "You think?"

"I know," Juliet says.

"**Festivities"**

Juliet runs into Buzz back at the station. He's, well, buzzing. "I heard about the case," he says. "Congratulations! This means we get to have that party, right?"

Juliet grins at him. "It sure does," she says.

"**Guest List"**

"Are you sure? Cause I think that maybe the two of them just need to—"

"Trust me," Gus says. "Unless you want to hear Shawn yelling again, absolutely _do not_ invite Mr. Spencer."

"**Two New Messages"**

Shawn gets home, kicks off his shoes, and listens to his messages. He's been kind of ignoring them for the last few days. He needs to call Abigail back. He doesn't know why he hasn't. Maybe he just doesn't want to have to assure one more person that he's perfectly fine. His dad wants him to call too, apparently, but Shawn feels no guilt whatsoever about that. Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots. Shawn smirks when the machine cuts him off and almost deletes the second message without bothering to listen.

"Shawn," his dad says. "Look. What I'm trying is to say . . . I just want to know you're okay. Okay? And . . . change that stupid message of yours. How do you expect anyone to ever take you seriously when you say things like you're a belly dancer and—BEEP."

Shawn shakes his head.

"**Overdue"**

"Hello?"

"I had a psychic sensation . . . deep, deep in my man-parts . . . that you were missing me."

Abigail smiles. "Hi, Shawn. And, uh, ew."

"**Assumption"**

Shawn has this idea that once he solves his first real case, everything will be fine. The nightmares will stop; the fear will stop, and he'll be back to normal. Presto Chango.

But what actually happens is this: he hangs up with Abigail, goes to sleep, and dreams of being blind, of feeling his way through a room full of blood.

"**Customer Complaint"**

"This shouldn't still be happening," Shawn says. "What are they paying you for, anyway? You don't have pineapple snacks; you can't get rid of my nightmares, and you refuse to engage in any kind of shadow puppet wars. What school did you go to again? Quack School of Quackery?"

Dr. Martinez smiles faintly. "Who says this shouldn't still be happening?"

"_I'm telling you that you got shot. Deal with it and move on."_

Shawn shrugs. "It's not that anyone _says_ it. It's just, it's obvious."

"**Permission"**

"It's okay to be frightened," Rafe says, watching his client carefully. "But I imagine I'm not the one you need to hear that from."

Shawn doesn't say anything.

"**Homework"**

"I'll make you a deal," Dr. Martinez says. "I think you're making some progress, and I'll agree to limit our meetings to once a week—"

Shawn pumps his fists into the air. "Awesome!"

"But only if you promise to go visit your dad this weekend."

Shawn lowers his arms. "You're a cruel bastard, you know."

Dr. Martinez nods sagely. "I've been told," he says. Then he leans forward, the way he always does when he has something life-affirming to say. Shawn leans forward as well, mocking him. Dr. Martinez totally ignores the gesture.

"Go see your father," the doctor says. "You might find out you're not the only one who gets scared."

"**Loophole"**

"So, are you going to do it?"

"Gus, don't be Peter Parker's dance moves from Spiderman 3. Of course, I'm going to do it. I'll drop in, say hi, steal a donut, and run away all before he has time to say anything."

"I don't think that's quite what Dr. Martinez had in mind."

Shawn shrugs at this. "Well, he should have been more specific with time restrictions, then. Don't we have a party to get to?"

"**Confessions"**

Beer is a bad idea.

The party doesn't quite go off without a hitch. The Chief's babysitter cancels, so she can't make it. O'Hara and Officer Allen end up leaving early—something to do with an old case that Lassiter, unfortunately, didn't work on. O'Hara makes him promise to stay, which is why he's still there at nine o'clock when even Guster has to leave and McNab has to be carried out. Lassiter doesn't know how someone that tall can possibly be that much of a light-weight, but when McNab starts trying to hold up a conversation with a poster, a few of the guys take him home.

Which leaves only Lassiter and Spencer, drinking together, and they've both had far too much to drink.

"Station wasn't the same without you," Lassiter slurs and immediately puts his face in his hands. He wasn't supposed to say that!

Shawn grins widely at him. He puts a hand on Lassiter's shoulder, and his movements are heavy and uncoordinated. "I knew you'd miss me!" he says.

"Didn't," Lassiter mutters, but it's too late, and they both know it.

"Ya know, when I got shot, I totally thought you were my dad. Crazy, right? 's totally crazy, cause you're not even bald! Yeah, you're angry and you yell a lot and you fish, okay, but you're still _Lassie_! Thinkin you were _Henry_. 's so _crazy _. . ." Shawn gulps down the rest of his beer. By the time he's done, his grin's fallen and he's frowning vaguely at the counter. "I nearly died, you know," he mutters. "An' I didn't even know what was happening. I'm scared now an' I wasn't scared then. _That's_ pretty crazy._"_

They stagger home separately and try to avoid each other at the station for the next week.

"**Dawn"**

Karen looks a little strange in a pair of jeans and black boots. Then again, it's barely five in the morning, so maybe it's just strange to see her on his porch. Henry rubs at his eyes, blinks at her. "Karen? What the hell are you—oh God. Is it—"

"No. Henry, no." Karen puts a placating hand up. "Shawn's fine."

"Then what are you doing? It's barely light out."

Karen smiles. "Get dressed. You're coming with me."

"**Hangover"**

O'Hara doesn't laugh at him when he gets to the station, but she's smirking pretty obviously. "Do not," Lassiter says, "make me shoot you. The sound might make my head fall off."

His partner nods, still smirking. "I know what you need."

"**Remedy"**

"What in the name of Sweet Lady Justice is _that_?"

"The O'Hara Clan Hangover Cure. Just try it."

"Uh, thanks but no thanks."

"Carlton. _Drink it_."

He does. Twenty minutes later, he goes to his partner's desk. "You _have_ to give me that recipe."

O'Hara smiles at him. "Sorry. Family secret."

"**Release"**

Henry shakes his head. "I can't."

"Oh, I believe you can," Karen tells him, "and I believe you will. I need someone to teach me, and I hear you're the best."

"Karen—"

"That wasn't a request, Henry."

But he can't move. "I just . . . you don't understand, it's . . . Shawn . . ."

"Henry." Henry stops, looks up at her. There's no scrutiny in her eyes, only compassion. "You have to let go sometime. This isn't something you can control."

He snorts. "You mean fishing? Or Shawn?" Because he's well aware that he can't control Shawn, and he's pretty sure he's already had this conversation with Karen. Twice.

But she shakes her head. "Life. You can't control life, Henry."

Henry throws his fishing pole at the dock. "He almost died. He almost died, and I was _fishing_."

"And tomorrow he could be in a car accident while you're at home eating dinner." Henry narrows his eyes, and Karen raises her hands again, _hear me out_. "Or you could have a heart attack while he's watching a movie, or there could be an earthquake tomorrow that takes out Santa Barbara. There's no way to keep them from harm, Henry. You _cannot_ control life."

He can barely look at her. "He's my _son_, Karen."

She nods. "I know," she says softly, and then holds out her hand. "It's time."

"**Last Will and Testament"**

"You sound awful," Abigail tells him.

"Yeah, beer is bad," Shawn says. "Don't drink beer. Beer is very, very bad. I may very well die in the next few minutes."

"Don't joke like that."

"I have to," Shawn says. "I have to, Abs. That's . . ."

"That's you," Abigail says. She's quiet for a few minutes. "All right. If you die, can I have your Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle collection?"

Shawn smiles. "Only if you give me a really nice eulogy."

"**Outrage"**

"Wait," Gus says. "You're giving _Abigail_ your TMNT collection? And _she's _giving the eulogy?"

"Everyone's giving eulogies. My funeral is going to be a three-day affair. Everyone will have plenty of time to say nice things about me."

"How about here lies Shawn, my best friend, who stabbed me in the back by giving his treasured toys to his girlfriend."

Shawn considers this. "You can have my Monarch Lodge portrait."

"Goodbye, Shawn."

"**Freed"**

He takes a sip of his beer and holds the fishing pole loosely in one hand, looking out over the water. He takes a deep breath, and things are lifted from him. "Thank you," he murmurs.

"You're welcome," Karen says.

"**Slacker"**

Shawn can't face a hangover and his father on the same day. He ignores Dr. Martinez's homework and does nothing but watch cartoons and complain that nobody wants his awesome portrait. Even Jules won't take it, though she does ask for his An American Werewolf in London poster. Typical. He'll just leave instructions for Gus to wrap it in Valentines Day paper and send it to Lassiter.

Shawn goes to bed early and doesn't dream at all. When he gets up, he listens to his old messages again. _Look. What I'm trying is to say . . . I just want to know you're okay. Okay?_

He has to face it . . . from his dad, that's almost like an apology.

"**Long Time, No See"**

The door opens. Shawn stands there, thumbs hooked around the belt loops in his jeans. His lips make an approximation of a smile.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey," says Henry.

"**Beginnings"**

They don't talk much. Henry gets Shawn a beer without asking. Shawn drinks it, then another one, despite yesterday's vow to never drink beer again. That was yesterday. They watch the game and yell at the television instead of each other.

It's a start.

"**Truth"**

Just this: before Shawn goes, he shuffles in the doorway and says, head down, "I'm scared, Dad."

Henry's throat constricts. "Me too."

It's all Shawn needs to hear.

"**Recovery"**

It's been almost five months now. Shawn's still going to therapy, and he still has nightmares, but they're more manageable than they used to be, and Shawn isn't always lying when he tells people he's okay. Still, sometimes he can't sleep. Gus continues to come over for late night marathons, though he absolutely refuses to watch anything with Keanu. _I'm burnt out. If I watch Point Break again, I may _die_, Shawn_. Shawn isn't sure how something like that's even possible, but Gus is his friend, his partner, his brother, so he'll let him get away with it . . . this time.

They watch Emilio Estevez movies instead.

"**Fist Bump"**

" . . . I was pretty worried for awhile there, Shawn."

"Gus, don't be the most forgettable Baldwin brother. I wouldn't leave you, man."

-FIN


End file.
